Definition
by xdeathberry
Summary: Oneshot. Sherlock ponders the meaning of friendship when he does something to upset John. Rated M for drug use Just being overly cautious .


_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Definition**

_Friendship is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies._  
_- Plautus_

* * *

Sherlock shuffled again on the couch, extremely restless due to a lack of stimulation. Where were all the good cases? At this point, the consulting detective was so desperate, he'd even take on something Mycroft had as he usually tried to push things onto his younger brother and he'd usually refuse.

Sherlock's mind was racing: facts, figures, numbers, images, memories, all raced around in his brain.

It was torture. Hell. He was trapped in his own mind.

The consulting detective pulled his dark blue satin robe closer to his body and laid still, staring at the ceiling. The only thing his mind kept going back to was drugs. Should he? It had been a while since he last used cocaine and the thought of plunging that syringe was rather tempting at the moment.

Sherlock's mind was rather unique. When he didn't consciously think about something, it ran in the background in his subconsciousness. He dreamt about problems and cases that were troubling. Sometimes he'd wake up and know the answer. Then he'd proceed to drag John out of bed and explain every little detail and each time all the doctor ever tiredly said was, "Go back to sleep, Sherlock. We'll deal with it in the morning."

When he doesn't have anything to think about, the dam in his head explodes. His mind palace floods and all the information stored in his intelligent brain runs haywire, running rampant in both his consciousness and his subconsciousness.

A metal pot that was stacked atop another suddenly clanked in the kitchen as gravity took hold of it and shifted it ever so slightly. How long had he been laying there? Where was John?

Time.

Time was a concept unfamiliar to the detective. Time was a creation of man. Time does not exist. It exists because man says it so. In order to create balance, man created time to measure things. A world without measurement and empirical data would be chaotic, and surely, Sherlock, as a man of science, would avoid such a world, but there were times when he wondered...

Was dying all there was?

Was there something more?

As per example, when Sherlock's mind palace unlocked its doors and windows, his mind went in circles that would make even the most sane person go utterly insane. He was thinking of nonsense, building tangents upon endless, pointless tangents.  
And that is where the cocaine came in. Or should.

He knew John frowned upon his habit.

He knew it but he did it anyway.

The concept of 'friendship' was foreign to Sherlock.

Natural selection and survival instincts were created throughout evolution because man needed to fend for himself. Man was meant to be alone. And that was what Sherlock had.

That was all he had.

Alone.

Alone protected him from things such as feelings that added nothing but despair.

To be involved with another human, to socially interact would bring unnecessary pain and discomfort. Before the blond doctor came along, Sherlock had little to no concept of friendship.

He had certain acquaintances. Perhaps less than. People he'd use to benefit from after benefiting them. A totally symbiotic relationship.

Perhaps that's what John was. Not a friend, but an acquaintance. Sherlock didn't understand why John followed him on cases besides the thrill of it all. He could get that anywhere. But why didn't it bother him that John stuck around so much? Why _did_ he stick around? Sherlock couldn't offer him anything. Sherlock was a freak. Everyone said so. It was ingrained into his identity and he had begun to think that way for a long time, but to him, the word 'freak' meant nothing more than highly above average intellect that those of lower IQs could not comprehend. Anderson, for example.

The detective tossed and turned. He needed something to distract him from his own mind. Anything. He felt like his brain was clawing at itself, scratching his head raw from the inside out. He needed something now.

Sherlock eased himself off the couch and went to the bookshelf behind the desk on the far side of the room, stumbling over papers and books that were messily strewn across the floor at his own doing, a result of his feeble attempt at keeping his mind occupied. He carefully stepped over his violin and bow which lay abandoned on the floor. Needless to say, the attempt at keeping his mind from itself was a failure. He grabbed an old leather-bound novel from the shelf at his eye-level and opened it, revealing a small leather box that was situated snugly within a gaping rectangle the detective had cut in the pages a very long time ago. He gingerly picked the case out and opened it.

His syringe. His cocaine.

The younger Holmes could not recall the last time he had used it.

He hesitated for the moment, his conscience tapping at his shoulder (which sounded oddly like John's voice), but ignored it and proceeded to sterilize the needle and prepare the drug in a seven percent solution, just like he always had.

Injecting the drug directly into his bloodstream provided the most stimuli within the shortest amount of time. Perfect.

He needed something to tie around his arm so he could inject a vein.

John was a doctor. Surely he kept medical supplies in his room.

Sherlock went upstairs and into his roommate's bedroom. John was a relatively clean man. His bed was undone, as expected of a bachelor, with a few clothes tossed here and there. A small pile was started on the floor. Knowing John, he'd most likely keep the first aid kit nearby. The detective walked directly to the nightstand and opened the bottom drawer. There, in the center of the empty drawer was a small white box with a red cross printed across the top.

Sherlock opened the tiny latch and rummaged around until he found an unopened bag containing a tourniquet. Excellent.

He grabbed it and didn't even bother to close the latch and drawer. He went straight back downstairs to the couch where he left the syringe.

If Lestrade could see him, he'd throw a fit. Drug busts. That didn't prevent the detective from getting more drugs. What would Lestrade do anyway? Throw him in jail? He would be doing a disservice to himself. Well, it would be a victory for Anderson, but nevermind about that idiot. Even thinking about him was an utter waste of life.

Sherlock pushed up the left sleeve of his robe and tied the tourniquet around his arm. Soon, his veins were bulging as the arteries were constricted. He had nicked some alcohol wipes from the first aid kit and ripped the small square paper package, tugging out the wet napkin.

He rubbed it a bit on his skin. And now, the drug.

Sherlock raised it, pointing it at a nice, plump vein, and plunged it in, pushing the piston down and releasing the solution through the orifice in the needle and into his bloodstream. He pulled it out and undid the tourniquet, leaning back on the couch in the process. Now, it was time to wait.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called from the front door of their flat, being careful not to rustle the plastic bag in which the Chinese take out he had bought for the two of them nestled in. Mrs. Hudson had informed them earlier she would be out and therefore would be unable to check in on the consulting detective who at times, forgot to eat. He could be such a child.

The doctor shivered and rubbed his arms as he closed the door. The weather was steadily getting colder and John had miscalculated just how cold it would be and had put on a light jacket. He wished he had worn a thicker one.

He walked up the stairs, wondering why the detective was so quiet. Surely he wasn't sleeping at his hour? Or perhaps he _was_ taking a nap. After all, he was up rather late last night doing God knows what kind of experiments. John would know. All that clinking from the beakers and exclamations uttered woke him up several times. He was exceedingly grumpy that morning when he wakened for work. Clinic duty again.

"Sherlock? I brought food. You need to eat. I know you haven't done anything all day," the doctor said as he walked into the main area of the flat. Sherlock was perched on the couch, his legs up on the furniture and his knees bent. His hands were stuck together and his fingertips were resting on his lips. His body was slightly shaking and his toes were bouncing up and down.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You look terrible," John said as Sherlock tilted his head in response. His pupils looked like they were dilated.

Wait a minute.

"Sherlock..." John began as he picked up the rubber tourniquet. He eyed the syringe and the leather case and the small container his friend kept the cocaine in. He was no genius at deduction, but even Anderson could figure out what happened.

"John. John. Did you fall asleep? Bags under your eyes. Skipped the rest of work didn't you. You're early, even after getting take out. Never mind that. Did you bring me any cases? Were there any cases? I'm not hungry," Sherlock said in a jumble. The drug was giving him much energy and for some reason, his mouth was spouting out everything his brain was thinking. Or at least trying to. His brain was extremely fast, faster than his mouth could move.

"Whoa. Slow down. How many times have I told you _not _to use cocaine, Sherlock! Do you want to die?" John said as he hurriedly placed the bag on the coffee table. He walked over to the dark-haired detective and used his fingers to widen his friend's eyes by stretching the skin one after the other. He was about to pull out a small torch (flashlight) from his pocket (ever the doctor he was) and flash them in his eyes, but he didn't need to.

Christ. His pupils were definitely dilated.

He checked Sherlock's pulse which was racing.

"I feel absolutely fine, John," Sherlock said. "Turn up the heat. Judging from how cold your fingers are, it must be chilly outside."

"It is cold, but your body temperature is also higher than normal."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "I said I'm fine," he snapped.

John sighed and shook his head sadly.

Why did his friend choose drugs?

Somewhere in the back of the doctor's mind, he felt pity. His friend's greatest gift was his greatest curse. How badly did he feel trapped in his own mind that he felt no choice but to turn to cocaine and other drugs? He was no fool; he knew everything his friend did. As clever as he was, the physical evidence could never escape a doctor's eyes. Was John not enough? Was his companionship not enough to keep his friend's troubled mind from ripping itself to shreds?

There was nothing he could do. No matter how many times he pleaded, went on a drug purge throughout the flat, or shown his dismay, Sherlock always wound up going back to his cocaine. Cigarettes, yes they were terrible but they weren't as bad as _cocaine_.

It had been quite few minutes and Sherlock was declining from the high already.

No, no, no.  
Funny how everything came in opposites. The quicker the injection, the shorter the high.

The truth was drugs were the only thing that enabled him to ignore the loudness of his own mind. The amount of information was buzzed around his brain was enough to drive anyone up the wall.

He made a motion to reach for his syringe when John slapped his hand away.  
"No, Sherlock! That's enough."

The detective glared at the doctor so hard John almost flinched, but he stood his ground. The blond gathered up all the instruments; the book, the case, the syringe, and the container of drugs.

"I am officially confiscating this," he informed his friend.

"No. Leave it!" Sherlock replied, standing up.

John rolled his eyes. He thought he could gain an advantage over John just because of towering height?

"I am a licensed medical physician. When I say drugs can kill you, it's because I've seen it before. One bad batch can kill you in minutes, Sherlock, and I'm not about to lose my best friend!" he said angrily. "Now sit down and eat!"

"John, it's none of your-," Sherlock was about to reply when he suddenly gripped his head.

John's angry face fell as he uncrossed his arms and gripped his friend's, scrunching his eyebrows in concern.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?"

The detective squeezed his eyes and raised the bottom of his palms to his forehead. He was shaking a little, and that was enough to scare John.

"Sit down," the doctor said, helping his friend ease back onto the couch.

"M-my head. I can't..." he gasped out. His head was pounding relentlessly, making it hard to think, nonetheless form a coherent sentence.

"Oh no," John muttered, "Your vessels are probably constricted. Your circulatory system is going haywire," he explained. He didn't want to gloat that he was right because his friend was in pain and his life was possibly in danger; it was no time for playing games.

He quickly headed over to the kitchen and grabbed a washcloth and a bowl of water.

"Lay down, Sherlock," he said quietly as to not to make his headache worse than it already was. John also realized he needed to close the blinds on the window to block whatever light was streaming through, and returned to Sherlock's side. He made no attempt to fight John, but merely did as he said. His head rested at an angle on the edge of the couch and he slung his right arm over his eyes, his left dangling lifelessly over the edge. His knuckles grazed the floor.

John sat on the hardwood floor on a space between the couch and the rug they laid down and grabbed the cloth. He folded it so that it was a rectangle and dipped it in the water, squeezing the excess. He placed it on Sherlock's sweaty forehead as the detective let out laboured breaths.

"I think you're having a bad reaction to the drug, Sherlock," John almost whispered.

Sherlock laid still before he responded, "It went bad, but I didn't care."

The air around hung heavy with that statement.

John was very concerned for his friend's mental and emotional health. He seemed like he was unafraid of death, at times acting recklessly and rashly. Did he have a death wish? Did he not care for his life? John wanted badly to help him, to chase his demons away, but the detective always held him at an arm's length.

"I don't want you to die. You're all I have," John said very, very quietly after a long pause in the conversation. It was almost inaudible, but Sherlock heard it.

Sherlock didn't know quite what to say. Sure, he had upset John on several occasions. Multiple. Hundreds, maybe, but it was okay because John got angry, told him off, and forgave him. This time, this time was different.

After a few minutes, Sherlock asked, "Why do you even care, John? I'm nobody. A freak," he said, still laying in the same position. John took his time responding, choosing to re-wet the cloth instead.

After a moment, he pursed his lips and replied, "If you're a freak, then I'm a freak too. We're just alike, you and I, well, besides the fact that you're a prick and a genius all rolled into one insanely irritating human."

Sherlock tried extremely hard to focus, but the pounding was making it difficult. He felt two cold fingers on his left wrist.

"Your pulse is still very fast. I'll wait for it to lower, but if it continues, you may need to get something for your tachycardia. I'm definitely taking you to the hospital if it doesn't slow down," said John, knowing fully well that Sherlock refused to go to the hospital under any circumstance. The detective usually got John to clean him up after a particularly physically draining case. If need be, he'd wait until it was serious and then he would take him.

"No. Get me advil," Sherlock said.

John shook his head.

"No. Your blood pressure will go through the roof and you could have a stroke."

Sherlock's headache was so bad, he didn't bother attempting to get up and retrieve it himself.

Sherlock laid there in silence as John continued to, once again, take care of the detective. He didn't understand. Why did John choose to care? He knew he always kind of regarded John as a 'friend', whatever that was, but he never quite actually thought about it. What was the reason why the doctor actually _chose_ to stick with him when the rest of the world disregarded his very existence?

"Why do you care?" he suddenly asked.

John continued to readjust the cloth that was sliding down the detective's forehead. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and stood up. The cloth fell. His headache was rescinding which was good news.

The blond raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock let his wrist go.

"You know you can leave any time. You're not obligated to stay with me all the time," he said.

"What, like move out?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock waited for his answer.

"Why would I do that?"

Sherlock sighed. Sometimes, John could be, well, stupid. Sometimes he impressed the consulting detective, but it was times like this when he got exceedingly annoyed.

"No. I mean, why do you insist on staying? With me? When all I do is nothing for you? You don't have any benefits from this, this..." Sherlock struggled to find a word to define their relationship. Friendship? Was that what this was?

John laughed as he stood up. He had been sitting for so long, his legs received very poor circulation. He wobbled a bit, still laughing. Sherlock felt a little uncomfortable. He didn't understand why his roommate was laughing.

"What, do you think I stay with you because I _want _something?" he laughed again. "Sherlock, friends don't ask for anything. Friends are friends because they choose to be."

The dark-haired man rubbed his temples, his headache lingering, but he wasn't so sure if this headache was an aftershock of the one caused by his drug or if it was entirely new and caused by his inability to understand the strange blond man standing in front of him.

John grabbed the cloth that laid abandoned on the couch and tossed it into the water bowl, taking it into the kitchen. He set on a kettle and wandered back as he waited for it to boil. Perhaps he'd never understand why the blond chose to stay with him, but it didn't mean he didn't appreciate him (although, he never showed it).

John leaned down and checked Sherlock's pulse again, smiling when he realized it had lowered. "Well, sorry to say, but you're out of the woods which means you're still stuck with me, Sherlock. I'm still confiscating your drugs and I'm still angry with you," he informed his friend.

The detective followed his figure as he sat down next to him and stretched, yawning out of exhaustion.

As much as he hated to admit it, there were some things he'd never understand.

* * *

**A/N:**

Don't do drugs. They're a temporary physical gratification and will fix nothing nor help with anything.

**Thank you for reading!**


End file.
